Here’s this week’s column, pulling double duty for both papers. Love to all.

“It’s here. The twinkle lights, the holiday cards, the waistline devastation–there’s no escaping the good will.

The best thing about the Christmas season is the onslaught of charitable acts. From food banks to giving trees, the holidays have a way of encouraging material generosity. But what about the other kind of charity?

I have four children under the age of eight. All four of them excel at making messes, dirtying laundry, being hungry at inappropriate times, backtalking, and crying loudly in public places. There are days when I think about how awesome it will be to turn sixty, wrinkly knees and all. (There are also days when I’m horrified to discover that one of my babies has grown into a new shoe size.)

Last week I took my three youngest children to Costco for milk, eggs, and a new DVD player. Before entering the store, I laid everything out for my two and five-year-old. Hey, our child therapist says that an ounce of prevention is worth seven thousand fits.

“Here’s the deal, kiddo’s. You will both ride in the cart, do you understand? No walking, just riding. Your feet will not touch the ground, your bottoms will stay sitting, and if you’re really good you’ll get a hot dog when I’m done. Got it?”

They smiled and nodded like good little chicks, climbed into the cart with the baby carrier up top, and we headed into the store.

At first things went relatively smoothly. Sure, we had to stop at every sample station, and get a good look at the dead fish, but nothing out of the ordinary. We even managed to bypass the Christmas toy aisle before they knew what they were missing. Just as we were coming up toward the check out lines, Junie (2) decided she’d had enough. She wanted out.

“Mom! I wanna walk!”

“Sorry babe, that’s a negative. Let’s go get a–”

“NYOO! I WANNA WALK! LET ME OUT! LET ME OUT!!” At this point she stood up and dove, head first, out of the cart and onto the concrete in a race for certain freedom. I caught her three inches from skull cracking.

Let me tell you, there’s nothing more embarrassing than a toddler with astronomical vocal chords. This girl is loud. She’s brassy and bossy and can scream the monks out of meditation. And of course, I was surrounded by grandparent-age shoppers, all giving me that, “So what are you going to do about it?” look that every mother dreads.

I did the only thing I could think of; I yanked her behind a big crate of soap, knelt down, and pinned her arms to her sides. Then I quietly and emphatically demanded that she apologize before I let her back in the cart.

It took two and a half minutes.

By the time she calmed down, I wanted nothing more than to drop my items and run for the car. I was humiliated, horrified, and despite my now obedient daughter, felt like the whole world was staring at us. I put her in the cart and started for the front when I felt a tap on my back.

“Excuse me,” said an older gentleman. I gulped. There he was, a witness to my horrible offspring, coming in for the kill. I steeled myself for what was sure to come.

“I just want you to know that you are a good mother. I watched what just happened with your daughter, and I’m impressed. I wish there were more mothers out there like you. You have a good day now.” He patted my shoulder and walked away.

In that moment, all the frustrations and anxiety and struggles that come with being a young mother were validated. Being a parent is hard. We doubt ourselves all the time, worry that we’re not teaching them right, or letting them eat too much sugar. There’s TV to police, friends to be wary of, potty training to tackle. It seems like every time I turn around there’s a sticky little three foot obstacle just waiting to trip me up.

Maybe this man didn’t shovel my walk, or donate a lung, but he gave me a type of charity that no amount of gift cards could match. He reached out and touched a stranger who really needed a word of encouragement. I walked away from him holding my head up a little higher, and trying not to leak mommy tears all over my infant’s car seat.

Reach out this holiday season. You might not have the money to offer someone a charitable donation, but what we lack in finances, we can make up for in friendship.”

This post is a cry for help. A long, wailing, weepy cry. My daughter is terrified of pooping in the toilet, and I have no idea what to do about it.

Here’s the thing, we’re going on three weeks of total dryness. She never misses a tinkle, wakes up dry at 7 am, and is totally self-sufficient in the numero uno department.

And then she poops her pants. Every. Single. Day.

I’ve caught her a few time in the act and managed to get her onto the potty to finish, but she cries in fear the whole time and clings to me for all she’s worth. You’d think the Titanic was sinking out from under her, she’s so panicked.

I’ve tried putting her in time-out on the potty when I know she’s really gotta go, and an hour later she’ll still be sitting there bawling. She keeps telling me she’s scared, that it’s too hard, that she’s “just a little girl”. I then tell her that little girls poop too, so she’d better get on it.

Here’s what happened last week when I put her in time-out on the can. After about half an hour it got really quiet. I figured she’d unravelled another role of paper into the pot, but when I got close she was snoring like an elf, sound asleep on the pot–out cold.

We’ve tried bribery, sticker charts, candy, makeup, fingernail polish. Nothing positive works. For the past two weeks she has been grounded from any and all sippy cups, including her life juice (aka chocolate milk). She weeps for her sippy cups, but it’s not worth dropping some on the can

I just don’t know what to do anymore. I don’t see her changing her mind, so I finally told her to put on a pull-up when she need to go to the Big House. So far it’s working, she changes out of her undies, does her business, and then pretends like she’s a perfectly potty trained angel the rest of the time.

Any ideas?

So here’s the thing. Kids today don’t really feel the effects of “ya better…” because we’re all a bunch of ninny’s. That’s right, we don’t have the coal to stick it to them come December 25th. In fact, sometimes the naughtiest kids end up with the best presents.

Therefore, I have developed a brilliantly evil plot to encourage better behavior next year. Have your children make a really, really good list. We’re talking a tramps and puppies kind of list. Encourage outrageous dreams, then tell them that the only way they’ll get it is if they’re super perfect.

Then sit back and watch them screw up for three months. Come Christmas morning when they run downstairs to find their stocking stuffed with socks and undies, and lame old lego’s, you can tell them sorry, they should have tried a little harder when you told them Santa was watching. Better luck next year…

(I have already put this plan into place. Rex thinks he’s getting a real live chameleon, Harry wants a big tramp for the back yard, and June would like Minnie Mouse in person. So. Not. Happening.)

Here’s this week’s pre-Christmas misery column.

This morning I stepped on the scale. It read, “Error.”

Let me back up. I’m hitting the skinny train these days like some kind of bandit; I dream of treadmills and skinny jeans. (Okay, maybe not treadmills. That’s the magic of nursing–500 calories a day and all I have to do is sit on the couch and watch House Hunters.)

Each morning I awake thinking skinny thoughts, and slowly make my way to the bathroom. I look in the mirror, suck it in, and wonder if today is going to take me one more step down that road to eternal skinny happiness. And then I approach my scale. I close my eyes, breath out all my air (to be as light as possible), and slowly climb aboard Old Slightly Faithful Depending On The Weather (we’ve been together for ten years).

At this point in the game, one or two things can happen. If the scale goes up, I immediately get off, do a few sit ups, and approach again. Usually by the fourth time I weigh it will drop an additional pound and a half, just to get me off its back. I can then attack my day.

See, the reason I weigh every day is because it gives me a thermostat for just how strict I have to be. Will I get two pieces of sugar-free candy after dinner tonight? Do I need to drink extra water? Is it a girdle day? The scale is like my personal fortune teller; it decides just how miserable or happy my diet is going to make me.

I know there are schools of thought that believe scales are evil, or that you should only weigh once a week. Personally, I find self-inflicted torture is a good way to keep myself in line. When you know you’ve got to pony up to the Great Scale in the morning, it makes that midnight piece of cheesecake much less appealing.

So this morning I woke up with a clear head and an empty stomach, and I knew: today I am skinnier. Sometimes you can just feel it, and this was one of those times. I hopped out of bed and quickly headed to the bathroom, hopeful that today’s fortune would bring me health, happiness and a really low three digit number. I did my regular pre-scale routine, and lightly stepped up.

What do you think he said back to me? “Error.”

Error? What do you mean, error? We’ve been together for ten years, how can there be an error? I flipped the scale over to read the fine print on the back. It said, “If  ‘error’ appears in window, you have exceeded the maximum capacity of 330 pounds and must immediately remove yourself from the scale to avoid damage.”

Apparently, I weigh 331 pounds. I flipped it over and stepped on again, and the same verbage flashed before my eyes. “Error! Error! Error! You weigh so much I’m now broken forever!” Of all the mornings for my scale to go bonkey, now I’ll never know the truth.

For the record, my new scale (purchased and unpackaged by ten am) had me weighing in four pounds heavier. I now officially hate science in general. Come on, someone has to pay.

I love a righteous argument, and this one is especially worthy. Kellie (a.k.a. The Authoritative Me) over at Mere Motherhood is getting some love for taking a stand. Check out her post on Elementary Political Correctness.

There are very few artists I would pay to see in person. I have six on my list: two are dead (Michael Jackson and Dan Fogelberg), two I’ve seen (Neal Diamond and Michael Buble), one will probably never tour again (Garth Brooks), and the sixth is pushing the age limit. Number six is Englebert Humperdink. I. Love. Him.

My sister Jen called a few weeks ago to inform me that Englebert is coming to Washington. Since I’m a third generation fan, seeing him with my mother and sisters would be better than a seance. There’s no way my dead grandma would miss out, we’d probably have to buy her ghost a ticket just to avoid freaking people out. Honestly, I thought old Eng would croak before we had the chance (that will be a very sad day for all of us).

But when I got online and looked for tickets, they were way expensive–we’re talking starting in the low $100’s and going upward from there. I think front row is close to $400 a pop. I guess most of his fans have nothing better to spend their social security checks on.

Since my sisters and I are all way too poor to pay that kind of money in the name of fandome, no matter how iconic, paying for this is out. So I’ve decided to write him a letter and gush a little about his wonderfulness, and my poor old mama who’s fought breast cancer, and her poor old mama (an original fan) who died of breast cancer, and all the rest of us girls who also have breasts–I’m hoping if I mention breasts enough someone will give me a chance to win some tickets.

So the letters go off this week, along with a three generational photo, in hopes of a Christmas/February miracle.

I’ll let you know. Here’s one more, for the road. If you ask me, the guy’s still got it.

I love Christmas cards. But honestly, I write so much and so often about our life, sending out a Christmas card seems kind of…stupid. Like people really need to know anything else about us than they already do? (Then again, most of the people I send them to don’t read my blog, so that makes me feel better.)

So before you press print on that Christmas letter, here are five tips and tricks to making your card a bit more interesting.

1. In addition to cataloguing all the remarkable traits your children have shown over the year, like mastery of kung fu or fluent Spanish, why not add something unremarkable? Like, “Has developed an affinity for brussel sprouts,” or if you have a teenage boy, “Has earned four speeding tickets with very little help from the backseat.”

2. Drag out that goal sheet from last year and confess. It could be a simple, “Did not lose seven pounds,” or “Never ran a half marathon.” Sometimes it’s nice to know that there’s nothing wrong with being a happy failure.

3. Has the economy got your family down? Why  not add a coupon to each of your letters. Kind of a, “Couldn’t afford to buy you a gift, but here’s a coupon! Treat yourself!” It’s the card that keeps on giving.

4. Lie. Go ahead, the bigger the better. Aren’t most Christmas cards an overly shiny glimpse at a slice of life anyway? (If you do this, you have to make it outrageous and ridiculous or you really will be a liar. For example, “My husband is now golfing professionally and has signed a contract with Nike to do underwear ads” is better than “My husband got a hole in one this year and he’s really cool.” See the difference?)

5. Let your kids write the letter. No really, have them dictate, and see what everyone comes up with to tell about themselves. If that isn’t brave, I don’t know what is. (I think I’m going to use this one…)

Whatever works for you, just remember that people want to hear from you. A photo is awesome, but it’s nice to get some kind of update, even if it’s just a few sentences. And if you want to trade Christmas cards with me, shoot me an email. I always try to add a few new friends to my list.

*If you are someone in my life, this post is not about you. I repeat, it’s not about you. It’s theoretical, based off a conversation I had with a girlfriend. Relax, we’re good.

Friendship dies. No really, even good friendships can fall by the wayside faster than you can say Girls’ Night Out–I know, I’ve been there. I’ve met girls who have a spat and “break up” with each other, a youthful move that I find humorous and slightly horrifying. Not that it doesn’t have it’s place.

The problem is that sometimes we jump into the deep end of friendship, head first, only to find that there’s no chance of swimming to the shallows. It’s a sticky place to be, trying to unravel from a relationship that’s gotten way too…uncomfortable (heavy, oppressive, needy, obnoxious).

And sometimes, a friendship simply runs its course, and that is perfectly okay. No harm, no foul, everybody goes their separate ways in peace.

So how do you know when you’ve got a keeper? Here are some of the signs I’ve found of friendships that are built for the long haul.

1. You can spend five years with zero contact, but the first words out of your mouth will still be, “Holy crap, you won’t believe what just happened to me…”

2. Even when you forget to update each other on semi-important events, like, oh, say a baby, neither person gets offended.

3. You can forget each others birthday’s and never exchange gifts for any holiday or special occasion, and you still love each other.

4. Guaranteed your name is safe with them, and vice versa.

5. You might move away, move on, meet other people, but you never replace each other. They always remain one of your dearest.

Over the years and the schools and the moves, I can count five of these friends. And the funny thing is, the girls I Love Forever aren’t necessarily the girls I initially befriend. In fact, sometimes the friendships that look so bright and shiny, end up wilting. It’s the girls who stick around for the monotony of every day life that I can’t seem to get enough of.

I’m lucky to have women in my life who remember me as a friend. Some friendships just never quit; for that, I am grateful.

Here’s this week’s Regarding Annie through the Standard Examiner. I hope your Thanksgiving was absolutely lovely.